


Stolen

by dilapidatedream



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Explicit Language, Incest, M/M, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:51:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1422130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilapidatedream/pseuds/dilapidatedream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Ryou thinks back on that summer, he thinks of stolen time and broken memories." On dealing with death, despair, and desperation. Alternate universe in which Bakura and Ryou are brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen

When Ryou thinks of that summer, that quiet, stagnant summer, he thinks not of lazy days and endless promises, but of time—stolen time, the moments that were snatched away from his jaws; allotted minutes and hours to which he covetously clung like the fading rays of the sunshine of his life.

He will not remember the events in crystal clarity.  The past is immersed in a sea of haze, and all he’ll be able to do is squint at the blurry edges as they fluctuate and morph before his eyes.  No, the past will eventually be lost—all except for disjointed moments, stark and incongruous as the incorrect pieces of a puzzle.

But what he will remember from all those years ago is the rain.

It poured during those first days of August.  It came in deluges, beating against their windows and soaking them to the bone with a lukewarm emptiness whenever they ventured outside.  He will remember sitting inside upon his armchair and watching as Bakura and Malik tussled in the rain, collecting both mud and water on their clothes.  But they were living—carefree and laughing, and he will remember wishing he had the courage to follow them into their fantasy realm.

But they were all living in a reverie, one way or another.  They were living in a world of possibilities and infinities, so when it shattered about their feet, they were left stranded and unsure of where to go.

\----- 

Bakura sits at the table, mug filled to the brim with tea.  The luxurious fragrance permeates their flat, lending an exotic flavor to their otherwise bland existence.  It laces through each of his words, sensual and warm, until they are swallowed up by Malik’s greedy ears.  And when that is not enough, the other will lean over and press their mouths together, stealing the very words from Bakura before they can escape his lips.

The scent draws Ryou to the kitchen, and he lingers next to the door jamb as he tries to absorb the warmth of their presence—as if it is a volatile liquid that will vaporize and fill the empty husk in which he resides.

After a few more minutes of watching, Ryou ventures into the kitchen.  They do not look at him, and he moves quickly to grab a glass of water—to look as if he is only minding his own business.  The water makes a metallic, grainy sound as it rushes through the piping and past the nozzle of the faucet to fill his empty glass.  He lets the bubbles settle in the liquid before he lifts it to his lips; drinking, but not really at all.

Bakura chuckles softly and Ryou hears the thunk of the mug as it comes into contact with their measly wooden table.  Malik is coercing him into taking a trip down to the harbor, despite the torrents of rain.  Ryou doesn’t bother to ask whether he is welcome to come or not, but rather, sits down quietly at the table with his half-empty glass.

They don’t look at him, rather engrossed in their own conversation.  Ryou traces the lines of the unvarnished table for a long time with his eyes and finally says, “Hey.”

A pause, then Malik grins at him while Bakura hums a sound of acknowledgment.  They then return to their conversation, and Ryou lets his glass sit on the table as he leaves.

Later, when he returns to the kitchen to prepare dinner, it is still sitting there, desolate and empty.

\-----

“How was your day?”

Ryou hears this as he sits on the floor of the living room, chemistry book open in front of him and papers sprawled all over the place.  In one hand he holds a calculator, in the other a pencil, dulled through repetitive use.  The wood is warm in his hand and he twirls it between his fingertips as he eavesdrops.

“Mm, boring.  What did you expect?”  Malik’s voice is rich and husky, and he yawns loudly before the sound of chairs scraping against the kitchen tile is heard.

There is silence and Ryou tries to go back to his homework—something to distract him from imagining what must be happening in that silence.  But then:

“Missed you.”

The sentiment is reciprocated, and Ryou is punching numbers viciously into his calculator.  It doesn’t matter so much that they’re not the ones he needs to calculate, because in the end, it’s all just a jumble of decimals and exponents and significant figures he can’t care for.

\-----

Sometimes he can hear them fucking.

They don’t particularly make an effort to keep it down, and the paper-thin walls of their second-rate flat do nothing to block out the sounds.  Rather, Ryou is convinced that the small confines of his room amplify the noises.  They bounce off the walls, echoing ever louder against the objects of his room until he feels as if he shall go deaf—from the squeaking mattress, the dull thump of bedposts against the wall, the guttural cries of pleasure.

He knows how each sounds during sex.

Malik is the vocal one of the two; he is the one without inhibitions (or perhaps simplylacking restraint over his vocal chords).  He starts out quietly, just a few contented murmurs and sighs.  But as things get more intense, as passion flares brighter, he makes this sharp, muffled cry periodically—perhaps when Bakura touches him in just the right spot, just the right way.  Then always, it’s followed by the tiniest stretches of silence before a whimpering, drawn out moan emerges.  The sound is deep and thick, stumbling over itself as it cascades down the steps of the air.

When he comes, he chokes on his own moans, his own pants, and whines keenly throughout the entire duration.  But he is always cut off halfway, and it makes Ryou anxious to think of what Bakura must be doing to shut him up—what he must be doing to make him cry out in that manner to begin with.

Bakura, on the other hand, is rather quiet.

Despite how hard Ryou strains his ears, how stubbornly he presses his face against the wall that conjoins their rooms, he can barely hear him.  Perhaps during the intermittent pauses between Malik’s moans, he will catch a soft grunt or a surprised gasp.  But otherwise, he finds complete silence.

He wonders what Bakura looks like when he comes. He wonders whether his body coils sharply against the sheets, muscles taut as he trembles, with mouth parted and groans threatening to escape—straining, pushing, but unable to pass the fortress of his throat.  What an erotic sight he must make, all flushed skin and moonlight-spun hair.

Ryou wonders a lot about Bakura, really—wonders about what the tang of desire must taste like on his lips; wonders about the feel of the silk of his hair against his fingers, the bite of his teeth against his hip, the warmth of his smile against his neck.  And sometimes, on nights when the sounds of their love-making wrap insidiously around his ears, he wonders how his brother would react if he knew any of this.

How he himself would react if Bakura paid him any attention.

But Bakura doesn’t, so Ryou settles on listening to Malik come with a strained cry, and tries to ignore the insistent throb between his legs and the bile in his mouth.

\----- 

Every other Friday night, they go out to town.

Generally, they go drinking and clubbing—losing themselves in the sordid, filthy halls and alleyways downtown.  They never take Ryou, of course, because he is too young; it’s not that he’s a minor, no, but he’s not of legal drinking age yet.  It doesn’t matter that they don’t take the time and effort to get him a fake ID as they’d done for themselves when they were the luscious, illegal age of seventeen.  Perhaps they think he doesn’t exude the sex appeal that helped them get past stern bouncers, or maybe they think he’d just encroach on their fun.

Whatever the reason, Ryou usually finds himself sitting by his lonesome on his favorite armchair near the window, staring out into the night and watching the flicker of fluorescent lighting dim the stars.

Tonight, it happens to be raining.  He listens to the rain as it knocks against their windows, asking for entrance—as it beads along the glass like crystal dewdrops, slipping and sliding, mixing and melding.  And soon, they’ll all be one as they swirl down the gutter, and sometimes, he envies them.

Normally, he’d peer through the curtains to catch a glimpse of the intoxicated lovers as they stumble out of the car and onto the sidewalk in front of their flat.  Then, as they’re making their way towards the building, he’d draw the drapes and sneak away, hiding himself amongst the safety of his sheets.

That way, when they make it inside, hands and mouths both too impatient, he won’t have to see the expressions upon their faces—for he is afraid of what he might find there.

But tonight, no matter how intently he stares at the street, watching the traffic eventually flow to a stop, he doesn’t spot them.  He continues his watch with an almost obsessive quality before slumber pulls seductively at his limbs, and he is forced to trip over his own feet on the way to his bedroom.

As Ryou lies down to sleep, the clock ticks 3:45 am, and he is still alone.

\----- 

“I… I c-can’t—I can’t believe it,” Bakura says, choking—on tears, on betrayal, on sheer emotion.  He is ashen faced and trembling, and this is far from what Ryou imagined it would be like.

The air in the morgue itself reeks of death, as if the dead are breathing, spreading their scent and aura across the whole vicinity—almost like they want to leave their own mark, so that they won’t be forgotten as the years go by.  It certainly seems that way, and Ryou can almost feel his lifespan shortening ever perceptibly as he sits in the hospital waiting room.

He watches the tense rise and fall of Bakura’s chest momentarily and whispers, “I’m sorry.”  He can’t begin to make sense of them, but they are the only words that rise up his throat; the only words that will fit through the jagged curve of his lips.  He wishes that his mouth would form the shape of his brother’s name, so that he could call to him and perhaps tell him that it will be alright, that he won’t ever leave him like Malik did—but the frown remains upon his face and he watches as Bakura crumples further.

“It shouldn’t have been him—should have been me,” Bakura whispers, all the words tumbling together in one breath, and Ryou is suddenly livid.

“So you think it’s fine to just leave everyone else who loves you behind?”  He feels like sobbing, but his eyes are dry, his heart shattered.  “You want to be the drunken idiot who risked his life and the life of another by driving—and lost?”  A hitch of breath, a frustrated whine.  “You’re lucky you didn’t die with him!”

Bakura is shaking, and he wonders whether it’s from anger or grief.  But he forges on anyway, the proverbial dam having ruptured.  “It’s too late to wonder what you could have done now.  It’s the past; it’s irreversible, and there’s nothing you can do.”  And after he says all that, he wishes he never started, because the look on Bakura’s face will haunt him for innumerable nights to come.

For a moment, he absolutely hates Malik.

“He’s _dead_ ,” he finally says, unable to look at his brother.  “He’s dead, he’s dead,” and he continues muttering, because he just can’t stop the stumble of words, “he’s—”

“Dead,” Bakura finishes in a whisper, and Ryou resents how the world can change in an instant.

\-----

Bakura can’t stand to sleep alone, not those first nights.

The cold settles amongst the sheets, chilling their bones despite the warm comforters bundled around them.  They offer no heat, and Bakura shudders in the night—whether from cold or guilt, Ryou still has yet to determine.

Each wistful thought Bakura procures drains Ryou of another ounce of respite.

He lies awake as the hours tick by, watching the shadows shift across the walls; reflecting upon the shapes shifting out of the corner of his eye and the jerky rise and fall of Bakura’s chest.  Periodically his brother will move, shift upon the bed and let out a long sigh before stilling once more—lying like the dead, and Ryou would assume he was, were it not for the quiver to his shoulders.

Ryou lies in bed and watches Bakura toss and turn, wishing he could ease his brother’s pain.  Then in the morning, he rises, body ten times heavier, and he stares at the prone form on his bed (a silent, private vigil) before stumbling to the kitchen in search of life-giving caffeine.  The day passes slowly, nothing but mechanical drudgery.  Yet it ends all too soon, and before he knows it, he is watching the shift of Bakura’s chest once more.

\-----

One night Bakura sits up, hand raking a haphazard path through his hair.  It’s greasy and tangled, but Ryou supposes that is a consequence of this awful mourning stage.  He misses its splendor, despite it all—imagines its silken shine in the morning sun, its feather-light touch across his arm whenever Bakura would hug him, the dusty hue it adopted when saturated from an evening shower.  He supposes that it’s all terribly selfish, that he should be thinking instead of the dazzling smile Malik would flash at him over bites of syrup-doused waffles.  But he can’t bring himself to do so, and he isn’t quite sure he wants to, either.

He should feel guilty about desiring his brother when an old friend has been lost, and he’s sure Malik’s vengeful ghost will be all too glad to remind him of his transgressions in those perilous moments of half-death; when the mind liberates itself from the confines of the body and plunges into nothingness.

Perhaps it’s that subconscious fear which keeps him awake.

He must lie dreadfully still, for Bakura glances quickly over at him, believing him asleep—and it’s irrelevant whether he slits his eyes under this pretense, for Bakura has turned away.  So he keeps his eyes wide open, lids thick and oppressive against his vision as he observes the tense set of his brother’s shoulders, the defeated arch of his neck.

For a long moment, Bakura sits immobile as death.  Then, as if the events are slowly constructing themselves beneath his critical gaze, he flares to life.  First, it is the jagged jerk of his shoulders, followed sequentially by his back curving forward—and Ryou is absolutely fascinated as each vertebrae bends forward, like the way water displaces itself as a stone sinks into its unresisting flesh.  Bakura’s back is a ripple, and the invisible pain coiled inside him is the stone setting off these series of events.

Shudder, clutch.  Bakura’s hands are fierce around his arms, and Ryou is so distracted by the indents they make on his skin (so deep, so vivid, and it’s amazing he hasn’t popped the skin with the sheer pressure of it all) that he almost fails to register the choked sound forcing its way through his brother’s lips.

It takes several long moments before his mind realizes just what that sound is.

Bakura hasn’t cried since Malik’s death.  After Ryou drove them home from the hospital morgue, Bakura had grown silent.  And then came the days of this miserable routine, and Ryou watched as Bakura’s life seeped out onto his sheets, mingling with the rank stench of sweat and pain.  So listening to the hiccupping breaths, the only verbal indication of his brother’s anguish, almost seems surreal.  Surreal in that the night air is so peaceful, and Ryou almost feels cheated.

He longs to reach out, to shift across his suddenly overlarge bed and gather the trembling frame into his arms.  He wants to coo soft words of comfort into Bakura’s ears, to stroke his hair and quell the demons inside him.  He wishes Bakura would turn to him, shed the past, and allow them to continue on with their lives.  But he can’t move, his façade of sleep somehow pinning him in place, so he just watches Bakura cry and feels another part of him shattering inside.

\-----

Bakura sits at the kitchen table, mug of tea in hand, and stares vapidly out of the window.  Outside, it is raining.  It has been raining an awful lot as of late, Ryou muses, and he wonders absently whether this is all some cosmic joke.

He stands in the doorway, caught between two worlds—wanting to breach that line and step into the bell jar Bakura’s holed himself up in, yet too fearful of the consequences.  They haven’t spoken for weeks, aside from his daily, whispered “I’ll be back in time to make dinner,” and Bakura’s noncommittal “Mm.”  It’s driving him up a wall, and he’s never felt so alone in his entire life.

Bakura hasn’t touched his tea for over half an hour, and when he finally does lift it to his lips, he makes a face while swallowing.  Ryou wonders whether everything he eats and drinks tastes as much of ash as it does to him.

His steps are light, and he tries to make the least noise as he settles down quietly on the seat besides his brother.  They sit in silence, one staring out at the bleak sky, the other engrossed in the study of his own hands.

“Hey,” he finally says and Bakura makes another face while taking a sip.

“Hey,” Bakura mimics, and Ryou is reminded fiercely of a broken record replaying the same section of music ceaselessly.

The silence drags on and he feels about ready to drown in the thick air.  It’s all the more depressing to know that, in truth, probably only one or two minutes has passed.  He wants it to end; he wants everything to simply end, including this silly charade they seem to be playing.  So it takes all his courage to slide his hand across the table, fingers angling to wrap around Bakura’s own hands.

And just as their skin is about to touch, the chair grates loudly against the linoleum tiling and Bakura is walking out of the kitchen.

Ryou doesn’t watch him leave; rather, he turns his face towards the window and wonders when the rain will end.

\-----

Bakura disappears for two days.

It happens one lackluster afternoon.  Ryou is sitting on the couch, limbs heavy and eyes unseeing, face angled towards the glowing, flickering television set.  A soap opera aimed at bored housewives with overly large romantic ideals is airing, the wraith of a woman onscreen screeching something about a discovered affair with her mother’s best friend, and Ryou could really care less.  He draws his legs up and tucks them beneath his chin, suppressing a yawn as a commercial airs—and that’s when Bakura breezes past him and out the door, leaving nothing but the scent of his cologne in the stagnant air of their flat.

He thinks nothing of it initially.  Perhaps Bakura is merely on the way to recovery, deciding that some social interaction (or maybe just some fresh air) might dispel the last of the melancholia.  But as the hours tick by, he becomes increasingly worried, and each number the hour-hand passes by adds a few more knots to the tangle of anxiety forming in his chest.  He waits and waits, sitting on his old armchair and staring hopefully out of the window—but all that he sees is the sad, overcast sky; the slow trickle of traffic; the weary faces of the dying trees.

That evening he makes dinner like he always does, sitting down in his seat and waiting for his brother to come ambling in, perhaps even with a smile on his face, cheeks rosy from the late autumn chill.  But the food grows cold and his hands start to tremble upon the unvarnished tabletop, producing ripples across the surface of his soup.

He doesn’t sleep all night, and as the rays of the rising sun shine painfully into his eyes, he continues to wait.

The next day passes in much the same manner, with intermittent periods of unconsciousness surprising him now and then.  He forces himself to eat, because he knows he can’t go long without sustenance; but everything that makes it into his mouth is as tough as cardboard and tastes of stress and dust.

Bakura finally returns early on the morning of the third day.  Ryou has dozed off on his armchair, but the soft jingling of keys just outside the door pierces through slumber and he is attentive the next moment, eyes wide and disbelieving as the doorknob turns.  There is slight scuffling before the wooden panel swings open, and there stands his brother.

Bakura looks like death and reeks of sex.  He blinks when he sees his brother staring silently at him, rubbing at his eyes—and Ryou wonders whether he’s attempting to wipe away the dark circles painted beneath them.  He nods and mumbles a soft hello before stumbling down the hallway towards his room, and it’s merely logical to assume that he’s going to sleep, seeing as he looks as if he hasn’t shut his eyes since he left.

Ryou watches him disappear into their room and wants to cry.

\----- 

Their first kiss tastes like desperation—altogether painful and caustic.

Bakura’s front teeth knock against his own and their tongues seem to touch in all the wrong ways—as if they are slugs trapped in their mouths, wriggling endlessly towards an unattainable freedom.  And all the while, there is the bitter taste of treachery upon their breath, choking them ever so slowly.  Each time their lips make a wet, sexual noise as they pull apart, Ryou feels as if he is drowning.

Drowning in his guilt and in the secret warmth that spirals up his spine from where Bakura’s palm rests against his thigh.

Malik’s ghost haunts him from the dark recesses of his mind, and he can’t help but moan as his brother bites harshly upon his lip.

\-----

Their second kiss tastes like broken hope—a melancholic, ashen taste upon their tongues, like that moment when they heard their father was dead.

He lies upon the couch with Bakura pressed against him; on top of him; invading him.  His hands clutch desperately—anywhere at all, so long as he is still touching his brother, as long as he can be certain this isn’t a dream.  That in a few seconds, he won’t wake up in the shackles of his twined sheets, breathing labored and heart heavy.  But if it is a dream, he wishes it wouldn’t end, as painful as it is. 

Sometimes, he doesn’t know what to believe any longer.

Bakura’s hands are calloused, unlike what he imagined.  They are rough against the skin of his stomach, nails catching on the delicate flesh and nerves tingling with sensation.  He doesn’t know whether he sobs or groans, but some noise makes it out of his throat, and is swallowed urgently by his brother’s mouth.

“’Kura,” he sighs unintentionally, a whisper of a word, and suddenly, everything changes.

His brother stops mid-touch, body growing rigid before he pulls away sharply.  He tries to keep Bakura there, his arms scrabbling and clutching to slender wrists—but in the end, he is left alone, defiled and solemn on their dingy couch.

That evening, he hears Malik’s name upon Bakura’s lips, and feels dirty.

\----- 

Knock knock.

“’Kura…”

Silence.

“Please?  You haven’t come out in days.  I… I’m so worried about you.”

The door remains shut, and his brother distant.

“… I’m sorry, if it’s worth anything.”

\----- 

Two weeks afterwards, Bakura leaves.

Boxes after boxes line their small, second-rate flat—boxes filled with the remnants of his happiness.

He asks his brother to stay repeatedly.  Begs, cries, and screams, but it’s all for naught.  The moving truck has been rented, the rooms cleared, and every familiar object that Ryou has ever known is gone.  But the one he misses the most is Bakura’s smile.

As he watches his brother walk out the front door from his favorite armchair, he remembers their childhood.  He remembers the time he had fallen down trying to ride his bike, and Bakura was there to dry his tears with soothing words and a measly band-aid.  He remembers the sweet smile that lit up that round, childish face, and wonders where that boy he once knew disappeared to.

\----- 

When Ryou thinks back on that summer, he thinks of stolen time and broken memories.

The rain pounds upon the window, asking for entrance, and he flips open the lock.  The warm liquid splashes upon his face, and mixes with the tears upon his cheeks to form a mélange of pain and remembrance.

It is August, and it’s still raining.


End file.
